


Orbital Mechanics

by KyloTrashForever, Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Getting Caught in the Rain?, Astronomy, Body Shots, Can You Figure Out When Your Author Last Attended A Kegger Based Upon the Musical References?, College, Do You Like Pina Coladas?, F/M, Fraternities & Sororities, Loss of Virginity, Nerdiness, Probably Too Many Penis Jokes, frat party, minor finnpoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyloTrashForever/pseuds/KyloTrashForever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard/pseuds/Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard
Summary: “I’m not going.” Ben shoves his telescope back into Poe’s trunk, thinking to himself that he should haveknownthis was a trick. “And that’s that.”He’s just about to climb into the driver’s seat himself when Poe calls out after him. “Rey is down there.”Ben’s jaw works, and it shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t make anydifference—but he closes the car door slowly, taking a deep breath.“Half hour,” he says evenly. “That’s it.”“It’s going to be great,” Poe grins.Ben isn’t so sure—but he finds himself walking down the hill all the same.In which Ben takes his responsibilities as vice-president of the Chandrila Tech astronomy club seriously. Very seriously.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 68
Kudos: 1062
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	Orbital Mechanics

**Author's Note:**

> The third time Dameron promises that the storm will blow over, Ben nearly tells him to go blow himself. He’d like to be able to say he doesn’t respond because the Gemenids will peak tonight in connection with the new moon, and Ben might not see such favorable conditions for meteor viewing again before graduation. Attendance is already low, since it’s a Friday night. Someone has to be here to take the photos of the event and update the club website. As vice-president of the Chandrila Tech astronomy club, Ben has a duty to be here. 

The reality is more simple. Poe drove. Ben is stuck in Poe’s cramped and increasingly humid old Honda until the rain lets up, or Poe decides to go home. If Ben tells Poe what he really thinks of him, Poe is likely to tell him to get out and walk. 

It smells like farts in the car. Probably because of Snap Wexley, who has been chewing turkey jerky for the entire trip. 

“I really think the rain is letting up,” Poe says hopefully. 

And it’s true, the tempo on the roof has diminished. Down the hill, on the horizon, Ben thinks there might even be a break in the clouds. 

“I’m going to start setting up,” Ben says, desperate not to spend another minute trapped in the car. 

The rain is still misting his hair when Ben opens the trunk to take out their telescopes, but it’s not so cold, despite the wet. The ground is thick and muddy, but Ben manages to get the tripod planted and take some preliminary readings. 

Poe did pick out a good spot, he’ll give him that. They’re out by the lake, and most of the houses nearby are empty vacation homes this late in the season. 

Ben is squinting through a break in the clouds, looking for Mars, when the sky abruptly lightens. It takes him a few seconds to realize that the light is artificial; it’s coming from a house at the bottom of the hill. He swivels the telescope down and zooms it out into focus.

People are pouring out of a large house now that the rain has stopped. They’re turning on outdoor lanterns, plugging in strings of Christmas lights, pumping up… inflatable AT-ATs? A low rumble reaches Ben, and it’s not thunder. It’s music.

“Oh, that must be Omega Alpha Omega’s Christmas party!” Poe says from behind Ben in tones of deep delight. 

Ben’s brow furrows. “Christmas is nearly two weeks away.”

“Yes,” Poe huffs. “Where _normal_ people will be on their way home to spend it with their families. Not everyone is married to the campus.”

Ben feels a little like he would like to hit Poe, but then again, that’s a fairly common occurrence. “How do you even know that’s what it is?”

“Because that’s _Finn’s_ frat,” Snap snickers from the car window that he’s draped out of. “Right?”

Ben doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dameron blush before, but even in the overcast moonlight it’s pretty obvious that’s what’s happening. Poe gives a half-hearted shrug. “Is it?”

Snap snorts out a laugh, taking another voracious bite of his jerky. 

“They’re blocking out the sky,” Ben grumbles. “Do they have to throw it way out here?”

“I think Finn’s parents own the place,” Poe says flippantly.

“And I’m sure this is _purely_ coincidence.” Ben narrows his eyes. “Because surely you wouldn’t drag us out here for any other reason than what you _said—_ right?”

“Of course not,” Poe asserts vehemently, crossing his arms in indignance. He maintains his disgruntled look for a good handful of seconds, to his credit, before it starts to waver. “But I mean… it wouldn’t _hurt_ to go check it out.”

Ben grabs for his telescope, shaking his head. “We’re going back.”

“Come _on,_ Solo,” Poe pleads. “We have at least an hour or so before the shower is supposed to start. The stars are still half-covered with clouds, anyway. Can’t you just be fun, for once?”

“We weren’t invited, Poe,” Ben reminds him.

“There’s like fifty people down there. They’re not going to notice if a few more sneak in.”

“I’m not going.” Ben shoves his telescope back into Poe’s trunk, thinking to himself that he should have _known_ this was a trick. Poe has _never_ been so keen on a group outing before. “And that’s that.”

He’s just about to climb into the driver’s seat himself, determined to force them all back to campus and retire to an evening of History channel reruns—when Poe calls out after him. 

“Rey is down there.”

Ben stills, turning back to cock an eyebrow. “And?”

“Come on, Solo. You’re about as subtle as a gun. Just give me a half hour. That’s it. I promise.”

Ben’s jaw works, and it shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t make any _difference—_ but he closes the car door slowly, taking a deep breath. 

“Half hour,” he says evenly. “That’s it.”

“It’s going to be great,” Poe grins.

Ben isn’t so sure—but he finds himself walking down the hill all the same.

* * *

Fifty OAO brothers and their guests do, in fact, notice three-sevenths of the active members of the Astronomy Club when they skulk in out of the rain. Well, two-sevenths skulk, really. Poe struts as though he has every right in the world to be there, as if the astronomers and the beer pong competitors of the world shake hands and rub elbows all the time. 

The solid majority of the club don’t even drink; there was a debate at the first meeting, back in August, as to whether it was appropriate to spend dues money on beer. Poe’s motion (in favor) failed, even though he’d brought in ringers in the forms of Kaydel Connix, who still hasn’t even paid her dues, and Rey Niima, who hasn’t been back. 

Rey would have been welcome back. She had intelligent opinions about Hypothetical Planet X ( _not Pluto, Christ, Snap, why are you even in this club, Ben had said_ ), and she helped Ben focus his scope on Mercury at its greatest western elevation. Ben had really hoped she would come back for Uranus at opposition, at least ( _he waited all night, even though Snap had been there too, chewing on fruit leather, talking about Greek myths and getting the details wrong_ ) but she attended only the single meeting. 

Now Ben sees Kaydel in a corner of the living room, her tongue down the throat of that Bazine girl from his complex analysis class, and suddenly his heart is full of hope that—

No, that’s really dumb. It wouldn’t matter if Rey _was_ at this party. What’s he going to do, chat her up about the Gemenids? He obviously ran her off the last time. 

So Ben hunches his shoulders and looks around for the keg, trying to project that he’s leaving soon. There’s loud Christmas pop playing from someone’s stereo, and Ben can’t even tell if it’s ironic. Half the crowd is singing along, but that doesn’t move the needle either way. 

Ben locates Dameron, who is working the keg now, handing off glasses of platinum-blonde beer like a fireman working a pail line. 

“Ben!” he says jovially. “Let me beer you. Do you wanna play a round of Beirut?” 

Ben has never wanted anything less than that. He makes a non-committal grunt and accepts an overflowing red cup, immediately retreating to the next room before Poe can assign him to a team. Unfortunately, the next room is dominated by Armitage Hux, who wears a light-up Christmas sweater embroidered with the phrase: _Ho Ho Ho, Now Santa’s Coming_. The sweater depicts a stripper with reindeer horns. It isn’t hard to guess which points the lights illuminate. 

“Solo!” the ginger screeches, causing the three people he was addressing to turn and look at Ben as well. “Solo. Is solo. With a Solo cup!” he snickers, delighted by his own observation.

This is a major reason why Ben doesn’t go to parties.

Ben immediately tries to turn and duck back out, but he feels an entire roomful of eyes turn to catch him standing there in the entry, and he takes a deep breath before tipping his cup amiably towards the little speck of a ginger. 

“Hey, Hux.”

Hux scrambles out of the over-plush chair, a feat made more difficult, Ben thinks, by the bottle in his hand that is at least two-thirds empty—sauntering across the space to put an arm around Ben’s shoulders. (Another feat made difficult, but this time by the larger width of Ben’s shoulders, a fact that gives him a tiny sense of satisfaction.) Ben hears some off-key singing in another room, but it’s drowned out partially by the way his heart rate picks up with anxiety. 

“I didn’t know you _partied,_ Solo,” Hux half-shouts up at him. “I thought you only partied _solo.”_

“Good one,” Ben retorts dryly. The singing is getting louder now, and he turns his head curiously towards the alternative entrance to the room, muttering back at Hux in a flippant voice. “I couldn’t miss an opportunity to indulge in that sharp wit of yours.”

“Shouldn’t you be out”—Hux gives a little laugh that morphs into a hiccup—“fucking with planets or some shit?”

“Well, we were trying, actually, but the lights from the party were making it hard to see—”

Hux takes a step back, clapping a hand dramatically over his mouth. “Oh, _no._ The lights!” He turns to regard the entire room, and Ben’s grip around the cup goes a little tighter. “Guys, we have to do something about the _lights._ Solo can’t see his planets!”

Ben is about to open his mouth and do something—excuse himself, brush it off, tell Hux he can bend over and shove Mars right up his—but he is robbed of any of these opportunities when a small body bursts into the room from the opposite side, a tiny speaker in one hand that is attached to a corded microphone. There is a tiara at her head made of flashing lights, and her sweater depicts a light-up Christmas tree that reads: _Get Lit._

Someone starts cheering, grabbing for a lamp and shining the light at her from the end, and she belts out more of what he realizes is the conclusion of the damned Mariah Carey hit he can’t escape in any store he walks into any given day of the week this time of year—but for some reason, right now, he finds he doesn’t mind it so much. 

Because when Rey bursts into: _All I want for Christmas… is you—_ pointing a finger directly at Ben as she carries the last note, Ben feels his chest somehow both swell and go impossibly tight, and he thinks to himself that maybe this party isn’t so bad after all, and he—

But then she launches into the final riff of: _and you, and you, and you—_ pointing around the room randomly as she gives a little flourish of her hands, and Ben’s heart sinks back down into his stomach. He takes a sip of his beer, deciding this would be the perfect moment to retreat while Hux is distracted with his important task of air-guitaring on the floor.

Back in the next room, Dameron has found Finn and they are deep in conversation, which looks like an excuse to make cow eyes at each other. Dameron’s got both hands in the other man’s pockets—the back ones—and Ben’s utterly done with this party, with _all_ parties, which offer something to other people but never to Ben. Dameron can’t be drunk yet, but he’s distracted, and Ben wonders whether he can steal the car keys out of his pocket without being accused of fishing for a threeway. 

Ben’s finishing the beer, contemplating the angles of his approach, when Rey careens back into the kitchen. She has somehow liberated Hux’s bottle, and clutches it tightly in her little fist...

“I am not even buzzed yet!” she yells, her statement somehow belied by the hectic gleam in her eyes. “And there’s only one way to fix that.” She doesn’t acknowledge Ben, but goes straight for the fridge, rustling in its drawers until she emerges with two withered limes. She kicks the fridge door shut, then goes through drawers and cabinets until she locates a large container of Morton’s salt and a carving knife. 

“Why don’t I take that knife from you,” Ben offers, nervous about Rey operating sharp equipment in her current mood, but she only points it at him, her arm extended, and winks. She carves the limes into quarters, then sticks her thumb in her mouth to suck the juice off. Ben is unaccountably angry at the other male gazes that follow the small pink motion of her tongue around her finger. 

“Body shots!” Rey yells, and there’s a few answering cheers from the kitchen and the next room. Ben swallows hard. He doesn’t really want to watch this, but he can’t look away. 

Rey turns and grabs Snap by the front of the shirt. The other Astronomy Club member is holding up a wall, guzzling the watery beer. Ben nearly chokes on his tongue. _Him_? Rey lifts his shirt up and studies the man’s furry keg of a stomach with deliberation. 

“Nope, too fuzzy. Salt won’t stick.” She drops his shirt back over his stomach, and Snap pouts obnoxiously. Ben’s relief is short-lived, because Dameron hears what’s going on and spins. He lifts up his own shirt, offering up an expanse of smooth brown skin. He grins invitingly. 

Rey considers his stomach with an expression of rapt concentration. She tilts her head to the side like Goldilocks judging the beds of the three bears. 

“Nope,” she finally says. “Outie.” Dameron makes a noise of wounded protest, but Rey turns until her eyes alight on Ben. Her grin is wide but also a little nervous? He thinks he must have imagined it, because she’s immediately across the kitchen, crowding into his space and pushing him against the kitchen island.

“Ben Solo!” she says. Ben wasn’t sure she even remembered his name; he’s introduced himself, of course, but it’s not polite to do that more than once, and he didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, and why would she bother to remember him, anyway? She’s beautiful and vibrant and… and _fun_ , and she has no reason at all to be pulling at his shirt until he’s left exposed and shivering in Finn’s parents’ kitchen, all eyes on him.

Her voice is a little softer as she leans into him, continuing to slide up the hem of his shirt as she bites at her bottom lip. “Let’s have a look at you then.” He doesn’t think he’s breathing as she lifts his shirt to inspect him, her fingers finding his abdomen to touch lightly as she looks down for a second longer than she has to. “You’ll do,” she says airily, patting below his navel for good measure. Then she looks up to give him a grin before dramatically throwing out an arm to sweep the kitchen island clean of its bounty of red plastic cups. She pats the granite invitingly. “Up you go, Ben.”

He thinks his best course of action is to _get the hell out of there—_ because no scenario where her mouth is near his skin can be good for his health. No, he needs to put the cup down, turn from this room, and march straight out the door and back to the car. Yes. That’s what he should do. 

That isn’t what he does.

In retrospect, she _was_ rubbing the top of the counter in a circular motion that had him a little bit enthralled, and the smile on her mouth _had_ seemed just for him—and okay, perhaps he isn’t as smart as he first thought. Because he’s hopping up on the counter easily, and he’s letting her push at his shoulders to lay him out like a buffet, and he only tenses a _little_ when she tugs up his shirt again to ready him for her own purposes.

She reaches for a one of the quarters of limes that still rest somewhere by his head, making a show of holding it up for him to see. She extends her arm to bring it to his mouth, nodding a little. “Open up.”

He does as she asks, letting his lips part as she places the lime between them, and it takes every bit of willpower he has not to lick at her finger as it _just_ brushes up against his tongue on its exit. 

“Now hold that,” she tells him, pointing a finger sternly. 

He gives her a nod, eyes wide as he watches her reach for the container of salt, cutting her eyes to him before she again pushes up his t-shirt to bare his stomach. She traces her finger in a line above his navel, her brow furrowing. “Have you ever done this?”

Ben somehow manages a _no_ around the lime that has begun to drip back into his mouth. 

“Brace yourself,” is all she says, and he could never hope to do that in light of what she does next. 

She curls her body over him, a flash of wet pink tongue dipping out to collide with the line she’d drawn with her finger until she’s licked a wide stripe across his abdomen. Every muscle there tenses with surprise as she goes, and something _lower_ twitches with interest because it is _Rey_ and it is her _tongue_ and she is _licking_ him for fuck’s sake.

She peeks up at him when she’s done, giving him a shy grin. Ben thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe. She holds up the Morton’s container once more. “For the salt,” she explains, reaching for the little spout to pop it open. 

She shakes it over him as though she’s salting a piece of meat, and he shivers when it lands on his stomach. He hasn’t even recovered when she lifts up the nearly-empty bottle of tequila into his line of sight.

“No shot glasses,” she sing-songs. “It’s okay, Hux gave me the bottle. I’ll make do.”

She pats him on the thigh with one hand, then uses the other to poor a shockingly cold stream of tequila directly into his navel. 

He jerks up, his muscles contracting in shock.

“No, don’t!” Rey chides him. “You’ll spill!” The tequila is running everywhere: down his stomach, under the band of his jeans, behind his back. His stomach might not be _perfectly_ flat, but there’s not a lot of built-in room for alcohol.

People behind Rey are shouting in dismay, so she moves very quickly. She swipes her tongue through the salt on his belly, presses a sucking kiss against his navel, and then, before Ben can even anticipate it, her mouth is on his.

He supposes that the point of it is for her to bite the lime. And sure, there’s a lime involved. And also her teeth. But additionally, _crucially_ , their tongues. Their lips. These all are together in a center of wet heat and concentration. Ben feels Rey’s hand lingering on his stomach, brushing at the mess of salt, saliva, and tequila there. It’s warm and centering, and so close to—

Oh, fuck. His giant fucking erection. 

Ben makes a noise of panic, and Rey backs away with the lime between her teeth, face creased in confusion. 

Any hopes that Ben had of concealing his state are immediately quashed by Hux’s reappearance in the entryway of the kitchen. Hux takes in Rey’s face, the limes, the salt, and the way Ben is jerking down the hem of his shirt to cover his stomach and as much of his crotch as he can—and Ben tries to scramble off the counter, tries to get _away,_ but—

Hux bursts out laughing. Laughing and _pointing._ “Oh, _shit,_ Solo—will the real slim shady please _stand up,_ am I right?”

Ben’s face flares with heat, and he doesn’t _mean_ to look over at Rey, it’s like some sick sort of instinct—and he watches with horror as her eyes cut down the length of him and widen at the sight of the tented front of his pants that he’s still frantically trying to cover. 

He can still hear Hux half-shouting through his laughter (“ _If you can’t shield your rocket, leave it in your pocket!_ ), but he can’t seem to focus on much more than the look of what he assumes is embarrassment on Rey’s face. There’s an agonizing few seconds where he is at a loss for what to do, and he just fucking _stares_ at her likes some sort of ridiculous perverted mental patient—long enough for Hux to get in another gem (“ _I think Solo has a boner to pick with Rey!”),_ before his good sense comes flooding back in a rush. 

Ben covers himself as best he can with his shirt and his hand, turning on his heel and practically _sprinting_ from the room. Poe grabs his arm just as he makes it through the entry, giving him a sympathetic look and shoving the car keys into his hand. Ben still can’t decide if he wants to throttle him for making him coming here—but he supposes it isn’t _Poe’s_ fault he can’t even be touched by a woman without _this_ happening. 

He bumps into furniture and bodies as he pushes back through the house, and there is spilled beer involved, but he doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t stop until he’s out the door and into the cold night air—even _that_ not quite enough to calm the traitor that is his dick. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes tight for a moment as he tries to convince himself that what just happened _didn’t_ happen. Tells himself that everyone was drunk and probably won’t remember, even though it’s most likely _not_ true—then he does the only thing he can do. 

He opens his eyes. He begins to walk back up the hill. He gets the fuck out of there. 

The ground is soggy and pulls at his sneakers as he slogs towards Poe’s car. Another band of rain has come through, and his hair is plastered flat to his head before he’s gone fifteen feet. He doesn’t mind; he’s sure he stinks of tequila and lime juice, and the rain is going to wash him clean. Maybe he’ll forget what Rey’s lips tasted like, too. 

But before he’s gone twenty feet—he hears the screen door of the house’s back porch slam against the wall. 

“Ben!” Rey shouts. 

He pretends that he can’t hear her over the rain and keeps slogging through the mud. 

But by the time he’s fumbling with the driver’s side door, the keys shaking in his hands—she’s there. She’s there and looking up at him with wide eyes, her hand on his arm. The rain is making her eyelashes clump and stick together, and her mascara run in grey streaks down her cheeks like tears. 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she says urgently. 

He shakes his head violently. He can’t even respond. It’s not that cold, but his clothes are nearly soaked through now, and he’s starting to shiver. 

“I didn’t know, I didn’t think you wanted—” She bites her upper lip, her tiny white teeth jutting up. 

Ben growls in the back of his throat. 

“Of course I fucking do,” he snarls at her. “Of course I would. Did you think it was a joke?”

She blinks at him rapidly.

“I just wanted you to notice me,” she says, her voice shaking.

He could almost laugh at that. 

“Well, _everyone_ noticed,” he says bitterly. He makes another move to open the door, but Rey slams it shut again before he can open it more than an inch. 

“Is it just that I… that I touched you?” she asks, her expression still drawn and tense. 

He runs his hands through his wet hair. He’s going to be dripping the whole drive home. Another half hour of physical misery, _at least_ —plus whatever damage this conversation manages to inflict.

“Yeah, Rey, it’s that you touched me,” he finally tells her. “It’s that _you_ did.” 

She stares at him for another long second while his throat closes up around the wild and unfamiliar emotion that has choked him since he heard her singing. 

And then she is surging up again to touch him—just her lips pressing so fiercely and unexpectedly against his own that he forgets to breathe. 

For a moment the nerves that connect his mouth to his brain seem to stop working. The sensation is there—warm, wet, _soft—_ but his mind doesn’t quite get the message that it’s happening. That Rey is _kissing_ him. Rather awkwardly, actually, but that’s his fault, he thinks. It’s no fault of hers that he’s standing as still as a statue, mouth hanging open a little in shock even as she licks at his lower lips in a testing motion. 

Then everything seems to connect, because _Rey_ is _kissing_ him. 

It’s still misting at best, and he’s still wet, and she is soon on the path of being so as well—but none of that stops him from wrapping his arms around her waist, from letting him his mouth slack further so she can push her tongue inside and he’d let her fucking drown him for his—he’d let her—

The weight of it all crushes down on him all at once.

He pushes her away even as his body _revolts—_ blinking down at her dazedly and struggling to make sense of this. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” she answers matter-of-fairly. 

“ _Why_?”

“Because I’ve wanted to for months.”

All of his synapses forget how to fire. For a moment there’s only white noise like a high pitched humming because did she _actually_ say _months?_

“You—you wanted— _months?”_

Her brow wrinkles. “Maybe? I don’t know. When was that meeting I came to?”

“But you never”—he recognizes he’s gaping, but he can’t seem to stop—“came back.”

“I only came for _you,”_ she huffs. “And you didn’t seem to like me.”

Didn’t seem to _like_ her? 

“I do,” he breathes out. “I do like you.”

“Well, yeah,” she laughs. “I sort of figured that out.” 

Her eyes flick down to the front of his pants, thankfully _not_ tented now—but if she keeps looking like that… 

Ben just manages to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

“Let me open the door,” he tells her. She has her hand pressed against it, holding it shut.

“Are you _going_?” she cries, but she lifts her hand away.

“No,” he says. “We’re getting in it. You’re wet.”

He yanks the door open, and he could swear she mutters _yeah I am_ as she scrambles into the _back_ seat—but that can’t possibly be right, or he’s mistaking her meaning, but she grabs his shirt as she passes, pulling him after.

He doesn’t even have the door shut behind him before she grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him down on top of her, and that’s probably a good thing, given that his legs need the room to stick out behind him as he tries not to squish Rey underneath.

She seems entirely unconcerned by that possibility, pressing her mouth to his again briefly before turning her attention to the edges of his ears, his jaw, his _neck_. Her hands are busy too; she slides them both up against his stomach, underneath his wet shirt. Her hand reaches as high as his nipple, and he gasps against her mouth when she tweaks it between two fingers. 

And he hopes she realizes what the inevitable result of her lips and hands on him was going to be; his cock has rallied from its brief set-back and is now pressing urgently against the confines of his wet jeans. He thinks she’s prepared for that possibility though, because after one brush of her stomach against him, she drops her hands from his shirt to her horrible Christmas sweater and peels it up. It tangles on her hands against the roof of the car, and Ben is treated to a perfect sight-line of her breasts, damp and tightly pebbled, unconstrained by any kind of undergarments. 

Rey struggles to get her hands free of the wet acrylic trapping her hands together.

“Can you help?” she asks, a little frown on her face. The tip of her tongue is caught between her lips, and she has her arms lifted over her head. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Uh huh,” he promises, and he doesn’t know what kind of assistance she had in mind, but the pleased noise she makes when he wraps his lips around one stiff nipple confirms that he’s making correct choices. 

She gasps his name (“ _Ben!”)—_ but he’s determinedly trying to imprint the shape of the hard little bud against his tongue, hoping that tomorrow he’ll still feel it there. 

“ _Ben,”_ she repeats airily. “My hands—I want to—”

“Mmph.” His eyes are closed, and he’s a little hypnotized by the obscene sounds he’s making—making with his own mouth—making with his own mouth on _Rey._ He’s only pulled out of his trance when she bucks her hips up, his mouth falling from her nipple with a wet sound as he blinks up at her. 

“My hands,” she grates. “I want to touch you, too.”

Ben thinks there isn’t a combination of words in the English language that could be better than the ones she just said. 

“You want to… touch me?”

Her grin is slow and _wide._ “Get this fucking sweater off, and I’ll show you.”

The sweater lands in a wet heap, forgotten. 

Ben’s hands find her waist to slide them up and over her ribs, marveling at the way his hands seem to encompass most of the skin there.

“Ben.” His gaze flicks up, wholly distracted, and he finds her smirking back at him as her fingers find the edge of his shirt to tug lightly. “It’s your turn.”

He hesitates, thinking about the angle in which he’s curled over her. Thinking about how it’s definitely not a flattering position for him—thinking about how he could have stepped out into the sun every _once_ in a while—thinking that—

Rey seems to tire of his neurotic inner musings. 

She tugs up his shirt roughly—the wet fabric clinging to his skin stubbornly as she works it up his torso, Ben hunching to try and pull his arms through the sleeves. The soaked mass gets caught around his shoulders, and he gives a little yelp as Rey leans up to nip at his nipple, lingering for a moment before pulling back to finish her work, the shirt finally coming way as she grins up at him. 

“Tit for tat,” she laughs throatily. 

Suddenly it’s very real that _Rey_ is half- _naked_ and she’s _underneath_ him and looking as if she’s _very_ happy to be there. He leans forward, desperate to get his mouth back on her, any bit of her he can touch. She has freckles across her shoulders and chest, and it is critically important that he trace the paths between each one with his tongue. Like an ancient seafarer mapping new constellations. 

He would be happy to spend an endless amount of time just touching her breasts, but Rey seems to have some destination in her mind, because her hands are busy exploring the contours of the waistband of his jeans, tracing the buttons of his fly with inquisitive fingertips. Of course, that’s where his cock lives too, and he freezes once her hands cup him through the wet denim. 

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable out of your wet pants?” she asks, with a great deal of feigned concern. 

“Ah,” he stalls, mind still reeling at the idea that he is going to be engaging in some kind of pantsless activity with Rey. “I would, maybe, yes, but would you? Be comfortable?”

Rey smiles up at him like he’s said something brilliant and nods. “Yes, absolutely, I would be comfortable without my pants, too.” 

That wasn’t what he meant, but he can’t raise any objection to Rey lifting her hips to start sliding her leggings down past her knees. She’s beautiful in a way that breaks his brain, which is struggling to take in the different sensations crowding his perception: the smell of her wet hair, the sound of their breathing echoing through the enclosed space, the feel of her hips under his hands. Further down, a flash of pink between her legs as she shifts beneath him, reaching for his buttons. 

“Focus, Ben,” she laughs when he digs his fingers into her thighs. 

Only he is focusing. He’s focusing on _a lot_ of things. He’s focusing on the slight flush to her chest. The way her hip looks so _small_ in his grip. The way her fingers have seemed to find his zipper and have begun to try and coax it down. He’s focusing on so much it makes his head spin. 

His eyes flutter when she manages to pop apart the button of his jeans. “Are you sure you want to—?”

“I’m sure.” She tugs at the wet denim until his fly gaps open, giving her enough space to curl her fingers under the band of his underwear to brush the pads of them against the base of his dick. “I’m very sure.”

He moans a little when she continues to tease him there, his head tilting forward. “ _Fuck.”_

“Get these off.” Her other hand pushes down one side of his jeans as best she can manage. “All of it.”

He would gladly help her (or maybe he wouldn’t, honestly his brain sort of whited out when she began to take off his pants)—but it hardly matters because Rey is… efficient in this. At the very least, she’s single-minded. She has the wet denim down his thighs in far less time than it probably would have taken him, urging him to kick them off, and he begins to panic a little when she begins to do the same for his underwear. 

Because just as he might suspect—her hot little hand on his cock is almost too much to take, and he has to close his eyes and bite down on his lip when she slides her palm from base to tip, content to study the shape of him by touch alone, he thinks. 

Ben knows he needs to divert—if he has any chance of _not_ alerting her to the fact that she is in fact, the only one who has ever touched him. Besides himself of course, but he doesn’t think she wants to hear that. 

“I want to _”—_ he swallows thickly when she squeezes the head of his cock a little—“touch you, too.”

She lets him, when he reaches for her underwear, when he slides them over her hips with a lot less urgency than she used on him, and for a long time after this he will be trying to discern _why_ she lets him—but right now he is just content to thank his lucky stars that she is. 

“I’ve thought about your hands,” she tells him as works her underwear off her legs to drop them somewhere in Poe’s floorboard. “Working those little knobs on a telescope. They’re so fucking _big,_ Ben.” 

“Yeah, well, I know how to _work_ a telescope,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

He shakes his head, focused solely on the way she parts her legs in a little invitation. He reaches with gentle fingertips toward her core, marveling at the way they slide along her. He, Benjamin C. Solo, Vice-President of the Astronomy Club, has made a girl wet. Made _Rey_ wet. 

His fingers skim her body tentatively a few times, before Rey’s patience runs out, and she seizes his wrist in her hand. She holds it still as she thrusts her body down onto his fingers, and they slide into her like a meteor through the solar wind. 

She makes a chuffing noise of pleasure deep in her throat and rocks her body against his hand. 

“Please, Ben,” she begs. 

And he would give her anything she asked for in this moment, would lay the world at her feet, pull the moon down from the sky and make a necklace of it for her. Anything. 

But he guesses that what she really wants from him is to make her come with his hands, and he hasn’t the slightest idea how to do that. 

“So, ah, how do you like to do this?” he asks, and he wanted his voice to come out casually, but it’s more of a tight squeak. He twists his hand a bit as he shifts into a more comfortable position, and Rey moans. 

“Just like that,” she sighs, and that isn’t much help at all. His thumb brushes across her, and her hips jerk. 

“There?” he asks, and she nods. He presses a little further with his thumb, and she moans. “There?” he asks again, and she pulls him down to kiss her. He has to prop himself over her with one elbow.

“You’re good at this,” she mumbles against his mouth.

“Beginner’s luck,” he mumbles back. She stills, thighs trapping his hand, and her eyes open.

“Beginner?”

“I...yeah, I just...I’m just a beginner because I haven’t—”

Rey’s eyes go round, and he curses himself for saying anything. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he hurries to tell her. “If you’ll just— be patient with me if I—”

“Oh god, did you not want to—”

“No, I—”

“I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No, I do!” he yelps, and Rey sucks in a quick breath. He realizes that he has thrust his fingers further into her in emphasis. He makes a soothing motion with his thumb, and Rey’s face relaxes.

“Okay,” she says, lifting both hands to cup his face. Her fingers stroke his cheekbones. “Its okay, Ben. I—” She shifts beneath him, his fingers slip away from between her thighs, and he isn’t sure who mourns the loss more. “I still want to. If… well. It you do.” 

_If he still wants to._ If his dick weren’t throbbing to the point of pain—he might laugh at that. As it is, he just gives a little nod, all that he can manage really, leaning down to kiss her again, because that’s far easier than talking. It’s hard to think outside of soft and warm and wet and _Rey—_ and he swallows up a tiny sound she makes just as he feels her little fingers sliding up the length of his cock. 

Which brings something else to his attention.

“I—oh, shit,” he says, pushing away from her before she can touch him again. “I don’t have a condom in my wallet. I mean I did, but then it expired, and that was depressing, and I felt dumb, and I—”

“Shh,” Rey says, pressing a finger against his lips. “If you don’t think Poe has condoms in the glove box, you don’t know him as well as I do, which is one Astrology Club meeting’s worth.”

Ben wants to argue with that logic, but also he _very_ much wants it to be true—so he barely hesitates to lean away from her body, awkwardly shoving his wide torso between the two front seats to try and reach for the compartment in question. He feels the brush of fingers just over the curve of his ass when he twists his body, and if that isn’t enough to have him jolting, the sharp pinch that follows sure is. 

She laughs softly when he yelps decidedly less so—but Ben is already rifling through hoarded napkins and forgotten sauce packets until finally his fingers close around a small, black box. He wrestles it out, noting the divider between the nearly-full larger size and the much-more-empty regulars, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that he won’t have to suffocate his dick today. Something he definitely would have attempted if it meant finishing what they started here. 

He’s still struggling with the packet when he returns to her, fingers shaking from the chill that seeps in from the still-open door and also from the racing of his own heart—and he nearly swallows his tongue when he finds her right where he left her, hand working between her legs steadily as she watches him with hooded eyes.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

Her lips curl in a lazy grin. “Just getting a head start.”

He stalls out on his task so that he can watch her, his mind trying to memorize the movements of her fingers like a star chart he can follow. She preens a little under his attention before rolling her shoulders back in apparent satisfaction. Then she reaches for him: one hand to his cock, the other for the foil packet forgotten in his hand. 

He casts up another silent prayer of thanksgiving that she seems to have a clear idea of what to do with each. 

Ben was unaware that glow-in-the-dark was even an option for condoms, but he’s grateful, in the dark, that he can see the silhouette of Rey’s fingers when they wrap around him again. She slides her hands down his faintly-glowing length then grips his hips, pushing him back against the seat. There’s a tangle of knees and elbows, hips and thighs as they roll in the cramped back of the car, looking for a comfortable position, but Rey ends up kneeling astride him, smiling down like a beneficent goddess, her hands propped on his shoulders. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he blurts, before he can think of anything less trite. He should have studied poetry instead of astronomy, might have had words that fit Rey in his head rather than formulae for orbital mechanics.

But she reaches up to cup his cheek as though he’s said something meaningful and glides her thumb across his lower lip. He opens his mouth to suck it in, tasting the salt of her skin, but his lips fall open again when she leans forward to catch the tip of him against her body. He stops breathing as he watches her body swallow up his own, inch by slow, delicious inch. The slide seems to last forever. 

It’s heaven, or perhaps hell (he isn’t sure how to classify the wet heat of her wrapped around him like a glove, he only knows it’s _mind-blowing)—_ and he thinks he’s content to just watch. To keep his eyes transfixed on the space between them where he’s now rooted deep inside, but then Rey bends to brush her lips against his and _oh—_ okay. This is nice, too.

She doesn’t actually move at first, just shifts her hips so that they both might feel the way his cock stretches her, her tongue sliding out to lick at his lower lip to encourage that he open for her. He whimpers a little when it dips inside, sliding against his, the sound turning into a full-on gasp as she finally lifts her tiny body to draw up the length of him before descending just as slowly. 

Ben can feel every stretch, every slide, every _part_ of her—and he has to reach out and grip her waist just to steady himself. Just to remind himself that this is _actually_ happening. (On the off chance that her cunt wrapped around him or her tongue licking into his mouth isn’t enough.) 

It’s a slow pace that she sets, a tortuous slide that precedes an agonizing dip, but Ben is grateful for it, struggling as it is to hold himself together with all the new and heady sensations that he’s experiencing. 

He feels the scrape of her teeth against his lip, a satisfied hum sounding somewhere in her chest, and he can’t help the way his hips jolt upward, almost as if by instinct. One of them moan, or maybe both, and the friction of that one thrust is enough to set his blood roaring in his ears—desperate to repeat it. Desperate to chase after that same feeling. 

And it’s easy to lift her with his hands (such a _tiny_ thing she is), and Rey doesn’t complain when his fingers go taut at her waist. When he pulls her off his cock only to slam her back down, his hips thrusting upwards simultaneously to find a rhythm. 

“Rey,” he rasps against her mouth. “Is this—can I—?”

Another content sound tears from her throat as pushes into her with that same force, and she nods against his face, one of her palms covering his cheek as he feels the other snake between them, settling somewhere between her legs, the brush of her fingertips obvious against the base of his cock as she begins to work herself slowly.

“Yes, Ben. _Yes.”_ Her breath pants against his lips as her hand begins to move in a quick pattern. “Do what feels good. I’m with you.”

Ben doesn’t need to be told twice. She seems to weigh nothing as his hips snap up to meet hers. He could lift her up, he could run a mile. When she gasps into his mouth, he thinks he could fly if she asked him to. He wants it to last forever, but each time his stomach meets her hips, he has to bite the inside of his cheek from hurtling past the event horizon of his orgasm. 

There’s no pulling back out of focus, though, with Rey’s parted lips mingling with his own, her body surrounding his, and the little noises she makes ringing in his ears. He’s desperate to think of something, anything else beyond the pressure in his balls and the tingling at the base of his spine. 

What do men think about to keep themselves from coming? Baseball? He’s never seen a game. Politics? He doesn’t have a TV. Astronomy? He doesn’t have enough upper brain function. 

Ben is about to hum _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star_ when Rey’s thighs clench on him and the soft slide of her cunt along his length is replaced by a crescendo of pulses that drive all conscious thought from his mind. 

He swallows a noise that might have been his name and squeezes her hips as his own orgasm rips through his body in response. He has to close his eyes even though he desperately wants to see her face—it’s just too much. Like looking at the sun. His hands shake when it’s over, and Rey is slumped against his neck. He doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to touch her now, or whether that’s considered clingy. He doesn’t know what to do with the condom. He doesn’t know how to propose that they do it _again_ , just like that. And then all the other ways. 

So he just says, “The rain stopped.” 

“It did,” Rey hums, her chest moving heavily as she struggles to catch her breath. “How wet are your legs?”

Ben hasn’t even particularly thought about it; who could really focus on a steady downpour on his too-long legs that have just been hanging from the car when someone like _Rey_ has been hovering over him, distracting with a very different kind of _wet._ He shifts his feet now, assessing the damage. 

“I think it’s fine.”

“We can let you dry for a bit before we head back down,” she tells him, pressing her lips to his chest as he shivers from something altogether _not_ cold or rain related. “I’m fine here, anyway.”

Ben wants to tell her that he could easily and _happily_ die here in the back of this still less-than-pleasant smelling car if she continues to drape over him like she is, but instead he just kisses at her hair because he senses that maybe he’s allowed to. Rey turns up her face to smile at him, and his throat feels dry with all the terrible and wonderful things it does to his insides.

“You’re dead set on going back down to the party then?”

She must notice his grimace, because she laughs a little as she props her chin on her hands that are folded across his chest. “Don’t be scared. I’ll protect you.”

“Right.” He rolls his eyes. “Nothing can save me from Hux’s fat mouth.”

“You know he only acts like that because he, ah, wants to take a ride on your disco stick, right?”

Ben makes a face. “You’re kidding.”

“Ben,” Rey laughs. “Do you even _own_ a working mirror?”

“I’ll never believe that,” Ben mumbles. He tries to imagine even the _implications_ of it, shuddering all over. “I refuse to.”

She offers him a sly smile, turning her head to rest her cheek against her hands, her eyes crinkling adorably and making his chest hurt. “You’re kind of dumb for someone so brilliant, you know?”

Ben thinks about how much he’s wanted her, how much time he’s spent just _thinking_ about her—never having the slightest idea that she’s felt even a fraction of what he has. “Yeah,” he tells her quietly. “You’re right.”

She’s still grinning as she lets her gaze wander, her mouth forming a little _o_ as she props up a little to point out the window. “Ben. Look! I think I just saw one of your meteors!”

Ben can just tilt back his head enough to see what she’s pointing at, the familiar flash of light darting across the sky keeping his attention for a moment. 

“So pretty,” Rey murmurs, staring out the window now to watch. 

Ben isn’t watching anymore, eyes trained on the flush of her cheeks and the softness of her mouth and just _all_ of her really. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “So pretty.”

She tilts her head back towards him and smiles, lifting one hand to trace the line of his cheek. 

“You know, you just looked up at the stars while we were all looking at you. You could look back, sometimes. You might find more down here on Earth than you think.”

Ben thinks to himself that perhaps going back down to the party won’t be so bad. He thinks he would brave a _hundred_ terrible parties for her, if she asked him to. 

Hux and all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
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